


thought we'd built a dynasty that heaven couldn't shake

by TolkienGirl



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, F/M, Found Family Dynamics, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, it wasn't supposed to end like this, many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 09:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14565660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: You pulled the trigger, and she died. But somewhere in between, you were supposed to save her.





	thought we'd built a dynasty that heaven couldn't shake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MJosephine10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MJosephine10/gifts), [maplemood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplemood/gifts).



You pulled the trigger, and she died. But somewhere in between, you were supposed to save her.

 

 _Swear on your mother_ , she whispers, steady-eyed. That’s how you know she really wants it, and sometimes you’re a liar but you’re not always a fool. You’ve run from a lot of things. You’ve also run toward every chance to give Gamora what she wants.

( _I told you to go right_.)

 

There was a time—a long time—when you thought family looked only like Mom, smiling at you while she still could. There was a time, and there could be a time again, when everything you’ve found could be lost.

You watch them, a blur of color and rough edges and unspoken things, and it’s a time you pray isn’t passing.

 

“Not thinking about that purple prick again, are you?”

Her fingers uncurl slightly. You think of resting your palm against hers. It is three months before you will actually meet Thanos, but neither of you know that yet.

“I’m a fighter.”

“Yeah, you are.”

She slides her feet up, arching her knees, so that there’s a space for you to sit on the lower end of her bunk. You do. Outside, space is comfortingly hollow.

“It’s a distraction.”

Gamora, and her three-word confessions of the soul. You’re the one who can’t stop talking. You keep your mouth shut, now, because you know she has something to say.

“It’s not who I always was. When it mattered, I didn’t fight. I didn’t fight _him_.”

You know this story well enough, because she has told it to you. Not all of it—not nearly all of it—but as much as you think she may have told anyone.

You say, so quietly that it doesn’t matter if it’s also _tender_ , because Drax isn’t here to laugh at you, “You were just a kid.”

“So were you.”

“What? When?”

She smiles. There is something glittering, gemlike, in her eye, but Gamora never cries. “Always.”

“Oh, keep thinking that. Too scared of what a _man_ could do.” And just like that, you’re back to banter, but you lift her feet onto your lap, palm settling on the straps of her boots, so that she knows you care.

You really hope she can tell, by now, that you care.

 

_Careful, Quill. Getting sentimental._

( _I told you to go right._ )

 

“Ever wonder which day is going to be our last?”

“What the hell, Rocket?”

 

Gamora is staring at you like she doesn’t understand.

“Roses,” you try again. “They’re a—Earth flower.”

It’s true, most of the flowers you encounter in the galaxy have wiggly parts, and bite if provoked. But.

“You have a flower for romance? Your music isn’t enough?” She has one brow arched, but her hands are clasped over her knees, a relatively non-combative posture. It fills your chest right up, warm and solid, to feel so known.

Maybe you are a fool, after all.

“Yeah, they’re like—spirals. At first. All rolled up like a scroll or something. And they smell—” But you’re not a poet, you’re a warrior, right? That all is beyond you. “They smell nice.”

“You know what _doesn’t_ smell nice?” Drax roars, and _god_ , he ruins _everything_.

“Come here,” you say, and hold out your hand. And what’s amazing, what’s been pretty darn amazing since Yondu—is that she _takes your hand_. Slim, strong fingers, laced in yours.

You hope it’s not ungrateful, marking a happy beginning in connection with Yondu’s ending.

You think he wouldn’t mind.

Away from Drax, and Groot, who is making spit balls out of excess foliage, you stand in the prow of the ship. This is your space. Yours and hers. Because it’s really you two, right? Not like the _parents_ of this dumb crew—that’s a dumb thought. Totally dumb. But—

“So.” Gamora slips her hand out of yours and folds her arms. “Tell me about these roses.”

_Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet—_

Gamora isn’t sweet. Gamora wouldn’t see much use in roses.

You keep going.

“They’re red,” you say. “Well, the best ones are. They’re the flower of _love_.” You drag that last word out, kind of a _lurve_ , and wink dramatically.

“Green stems?” She cocks her head.

“Yup.” That is, at least on some planets, fairly consistent.

She smirks, twines a strand of hair around her finger. “Like me.”

You almost have to pick up your jaw up off the ship’s deck. It’s not a great look. _Not one of your finer moments, Quill_.

She glowers, all of a sudden. “You don’t think so?”

“No, no,” you say. “You’d make a good rose. They have thorns, too.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and saunters back toward the others. “Best part.”

 

 _Swear on your mother_.

You wish trusting people didn’t always end like this.

You wish loving people didn’t mean losing them. But maybe that is the only way loss is felt.

You don’t notice it unless you—

 

Just like that, she’s gone. And just like that, some arrogant dude in a metal suit is telling you that the world is ending.

And you _know_. You freaking know, alright? Because she’s not _here_ , and you are used to thin air and fleeting atmospheres, but you are not used to this kind of _not breathing_.

 

The battle rages. You almost win.

 _Almost_ is the way Mom’s smile looked when she couldn’t really smile anymore. _Almost_ is the way the warmth of Yondu’s touch lingered against your cheek, even though his hand had gone cold when it fell away.

 _Almost_ is—

You stop seeing straight. You stop seeing much of anything.  It’s a blur of color and rough edges and unspoken things.

( _No, you didn’t_.)

( _No, you didn’t._ )

You’re not a poet, right? And maybe you’re not a warrior, either. Maybe you’re not anything without Gamora, not really, not where it _counts_.

You pulled the trigger, and then you thought you’d saved her. But somewhere in between, she died.


End file.
